


will these hands never be clean?

by poetouma



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Shakespeare, Killing Game Was A Virtual Reality Simulation (Dangan Ronpa), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oma Kokichi Needs a Hug, Post-Killing School Life (Dangan Ronpa), ouma kokichi needs to learn how to deal with his feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 01:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30131955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetouma/pseuds/poetouma
Summary: The guilt bubbled up, higher than Ouma ever meant for it to. Now he was drowning in it, because he underestimated it as another subject he could reign over.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72
Collections: Quality Fics





	will these hands never be clean?

**Author's Note:**

> “ To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself. ”   
> William Shakespeare. Macbeth. Act 2, Scene 2.

Saihara awoke to the hissing of water coming from the bathroom. Normally, he would have thought nothing of it, rolling over to return to sleep. Ouma most likely had to use the bathroom.

...But the sound of the running faucet has been going for five minutes now, and Ouma has yet to return to fill the other side of the bed again. 

Lazily, he brought a hand up to his face, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes while he sat up. Curiosity and anxiousness was slowly starting to seep into his mind, chasing the hope of being able to fall back asleep away. He slipped out from under the oh-so-warm covers, stealing a glance at his bedside alarm after blinking the last of dreariness from his eyes. 2:46 AM. God, he was lucky he didn’t have to wake up for work in the morning. 

A streak of light from the bathroom spilled out, as the door was open just a crack. The closer Saihara got, the louder the running water got, along with a low droning noise that accompanied it. That was not something his ears picked up from the bedroom. Was Ouma… talking to himself? He frowned. 

It wasn’t uncommon for him to do such a thing, sure. Ouma would talk off the ears of anyone or thing that had them, and even if nobody was around to witness, he continued with his theatrics, just for the sake of amusing himself. If this wasn’t such odd timing, Saihara could have smiled at the thought of his boyfriend’s quirks. 

The former detective nudged the bathroom door open further to unveil the mystery of the incessant hissing and murmuring that woke him up.

Though Saihara would never say it to Ouma, the sight that greeted him was a sorry one. His jaw hung uselessly open, his mouth unable to form words- not that his brain was able to think of anything to say anyway as he desperately tried to comprehend the scene.

Ouma didn’t notice the new presence, his small frame hunched over the sink. Incoherent words were forced out through gritted teeth. His brows were drawn together as if in pain, or frustration. Perhaps both. His eyes that typically took on a vibrant, purple hue, no longer carried the excited gaze, whether feigned or not, they held any other day. This was not to say they were dull, and tired. Quite the opposite– there was a fierce glint to them, as if he was on the brink of snapping, or that he already had. They bore an intense focus that led down to his small hands. Hands that were drowning underneath the faucet’s water. Hands that donned an alarming shade of red from the vigorous scrubbing their owner was subjecting them to. The soapy water that Ouma rubbed into the raw skin of his hands was messily splattered all over the sink’s counter, spilling into pools on the floor around his feet. The front of the baggy t-shirt Ouma wore was soaked, catching all of the water that didn’t make it to the cold tiles beneath him. His body trembled with effort as suds lathered his skin for what must be the hundredth time that night, paying no mind to his drenched and disarrayed surroundings.

Saihara did not know if there was a correct way to approach this, but if he didn’t, he feared Ouma’s aggressive scouring wouldn’t stop until he reached the sickening white of bone. 

“‘Kichi–” he managed to get out, gulping when he got no reply. The leader continued his frantic muttering, his eyes determinedly glued to his hands. 

_Hm? Is Mister Detective sooo suspicious of such a mundane task? I’m just washing my hands, Shumai! Wouldn’t want any deadly diseases spreading!_ ...is the cheerful response Saihara would usually expect. A witty comment like that never met his ears; he wished it did. That would at least mean he was present– present enough to make a smartass remark regardless of his disheveled appearance that made him look like he just clawed his way from a war zone. 

Instead, Ouma’s jumbled mumbles and the water’s whirring filled the room, bouncing off the walls, sounding hauntingly loud without the leader’s usual peppiness. 

Saihara tried again, firmer this time, and daring to take a few steps closer. “Kokichi.”

The once trembling body froze at once, and Ouma’s eyes snapped up to meet those of who caught him through the mirror that hung above the sink. There was a look of terror within them, caught red-handed. His mouth snapped shut, the muttering coming to an abrupt stop. The water continued to run, hitting Ouma’s hands that were clenched together in an unyielding grip before spiraling down porcelain and disappearing through the drain. 

Saihara moved with cautious steps. Was there a right thing to say here? He stuck with what was at the top of his head, but kept a gentle tone. He knew how easy it was to trigger Ouma into drawing back into himself again; he has seen how quickly the supreme leader could shape his face into a false expression. It was second nature to him. 

“What are you doing?”

The question went unanswered for a painfully long moment. With every second that went by, the tension in the air grew another pound heavier, copiously weighing on the shoulders of the room’s occupants. And then:

“It won’t come off.”

Ouma’s voice was raspy, exhausted with the effort of trying to flay himself with soap and water, and resisting the urge to cough up the contents of his stomach out of disgust for himself. 

Saihara blinked, taken aback by the response. It echoed in his brain as he tried to make sense of it. Come off? What won’t come off? What was he—?

“It won’t– Sai– Shu— it’s not coming out! It’s not—” Trembling began to take over Ouma’s figure once more, his words getting louder with desperation. He brought his small, clamped hands up to illustrate, water dripping onto the floor and accumulating into a new puddle as he did so. 

Saihara’s frown deepened, his concerned eyes falling to the hands that were being pushed in front of his face. He couldn’t see what Ouma was so panicked over, which only drove his worry further. (As if his worry hasn’t already maxed out at his boyfriend’s off behavior.)

It was as if whoever was standing before him was a complete stranger. Ouma has dropped his guard around him before, yes, but that was nothing like this. There was still a sense of control in the past; Ouma _chose_ to be serious with him. He _chose_ to reveal the truth, and he was just as capable of closing the backstage curtain if he ever got too uncomfortable. He always kept a steady hand on his composure, never letting emotions blur his line of vision, and very rarely bursting out in a fit of rage. 

But now such control was painfully stripped away, not a hint of it left to grace the supreme leader’s mannerisms. Frustration and alarm dripped heavily from his words. His movements were corrupted with fear. Fear that shone through in shallow, desperate breaths, an expression of utter hopelessness, and shaky hands that begged for relief from merciless abrasion. No, the person Saihara faced was not a stranger, but a broken Ouma Kokichi.

The taller of the two brought his own hands up, daring to clasp them around the other’s. His touch was gentle, as not to irritate Ouma’s skin even more than the fervent cleansing did. Saihara refused to give up the hold, despite the way Ouma tried jerking his hands away.

“You shouldn’t,” came the smaller’s protest when his attempt failed. He felt Saihara’s gaze, but he refused to meet it with his own. He was too busy staring at his own hands in horror. 

“Yes, I should,” Saihara insisted, surprised by his own certainty. He could hear Ouma’s usual wit in the back of his mind: _Quite bold of you, my beloved! Perhaps I’m rubbing off on you after all!_ Good— now was not the time for his hesitating. Ouma looked lost enough.

Ouma fell into silence for a long time. His expression couldn’t exactly be made out like this— with messy strands of hair falling into his face and blocking his eyes. The only clue Saihara was given in reading his face was the way his lip curled slightly in distaste, then, after a minute, his chest weakly jerked with a scoff. Saihara patiently waited for the Mystery to unravel himself. 

“Do you think there’s still a mark on her neck?”

Ah. That’s what this is about. Saihara’s calculating look softened into a sympathetic one that Ouma would have scolded him for at an earlier hour. 

Saihara was well aware that his partner had his own trauma that the killing game thrusted upon him. Each cast member was supplied with therapy from the moment the virtual reality gear was pushed off in their waking moments. The costs of prescriptions, doctors appointments, and individual therapy sessions were covered. Not because Team Danganronpa actually cared; but because it was what allowed them to claim their murderous show as ethical. 

That being said, he was also well aware of Ouma’s detrimental habit of lying and blocking his feelings so nobody, not even himself, could see them. This led to quite few things. On Ouma’s therapy days, he often skipped. When Saihara calls attention to this, he gets the same reaction every time: a careless _whoops! I guess I forgot!_ But Ouma was not a forgetful person, they both knew it. He approached the world like a game of chess: no move left unobserved, and no detail escaping his view. 

At night, Saihara sometimes heard the irregular breathing, choked sobs, and sharp jolts produced by nightmares happening next to him. They were symptoms that were as hidden as they could be by turning away. He noticed the way Ouma held his breath, and slowly let it out in an attempt to censor its shakiness. _Are you okay?_ Saihara would ask, but it always went ignored. Eventually, Ouma turned to face him again, pretending his leftover sniffling came from something as miniscule as allergies, and rested his head on Saihara’s chest. No words were exchanged, no explanation or vent followed, and it was as if no such thing ever happened come morning. His tears dried up when the sun rose, and his chatty, bouncy self budded once again. Whatever haunted him at night seemed to slip away with daylight, and Ouma was fully capable of spewing creative insults, and excitedly butting into whatever debate he overheard.

But forced comedy acts and stifled crying sessions only go so far, and even a self-proclaimed Evil Supreme Leader had his limit. Saihara remembered the first month of recovery as well as everyone else. Ouma was the last to join the group; it took him weeks to venture out of his hospital room to face the rest of the cast. He refused to go further than surface level sarcasm when begged to cooperate during group therapy exercises. He insisted he keep up with his game of lies, even if he was the only one playing. He was his own opponent, constantly torn between being honest with himself or clinging to a faux, unbreakable persona that got off on people’s misery. Ouma always chose the latter, and it was crushing him. Again.

This decision of Ouma’s ultimately brought them here: in the small bathroom of their shared apartment at nearly three o’clock in the morning, one of them looking like he was caught in a flood. Flashes of a ghastly face, and hands clawing at the toilet paper that cuts into their owner’s throat interrupt his sleep. The smell of burning flesh never left his memory, nor did the sight of the raging flames that caused it— flames that he might as well have lit himself. _Killer. Culprit. Mastermind. Blackened._ The guilt bubbled up, higher than Ouma ever meant for it to. Now he was drowning in it, because he underestimated it as another subject he could reign over. 

Saihara ran a thumb over the back of Ouma’s hand in an attempt to soothe him. He chose his next words carefully. “How long?” 

He got no verbal response, but it was all Saihara needed. He learned quickly that this often meant Ouma was too ashamed of the answer, or that he realized just how badly he miscalculated. More specifically, Ouma’s mind must have been racked with thoughts that prompted this violent handwashing for months, and he kept it hidden, bearing all the weight on his small shoulders only. “This isn’t something you have to deal with alone,” he reminded.

“It’s never going to come out. The execution should’ve been mine…” Ouma’s voice was barely above a whisper. He was still staring at his hands, which tensed into fists so his fingernails dug angrily into his palms. He deserved to feel the relentless stings of wasps cover every inch of his skin as it swelled. He deserved to desperately gasp for oxygen while his lungs burned and ached only to receive no avail. The cold metal of the hydraulic press was merciful— at least then he had some amount of control, of hope. He chose that fate. 

“I’m disgusting, Shu, I- I’m a murderer!” he wailed, a pathetic noise that his wobbling lip and gritted teeth had been battling to keep in his throat.

A dull ache grew in Saihara’s chest at the sound. He wished Ouma didn’t push himself to such extremes all of the time, that he would realize the game pieces needed to be respectively put away, and the board folded up. Instead, the pawns ended up scattered everywhere, shoved under a rug haphazardly so Ouma tripped on it later. 

Slowly, the taller lowered to kneel on the floor, guiding the other down with him, as their hands were still clasped together. He sat back on his heels while Ouma limply plopped down in front of him, legs curled to the side. The cool water all over the floor seeped into the fabric of both of their sweatpants, but neither of them paid it much mind. 

The two sat in silence, with the exception of Ouma’s sniffles and occasional hiccup that he couldn’t gulp down. He tried wiping the tears from his face, but only succeeded in replacing salt water with tap water. His resignation came in the form of face-planting into his partner’s shoulder, and Saihara’s shirt had to suffice as a tissue. When day comes, he’ll get Saihara to throw it out. He had no doubt his tears carried a venom so acidic not even a cycle in the wash could clear it. They will stain, and they will burn to the shirt’s owner’s skin. What if they infected Saihara as well? He entertained the idea that his presence alone could ruin him. Was that not how it worked? A detective couldn’t be seen with a killer— his reputation would be destroyed. He will be seen as equally untrustworthy, just as much of an enemy to law and order as the killer. 

Ouma could not have that.

Saihara Shuichi was kind. 

Saihara Shuichi was good. 

Saihara Shuichi was everyone’s favorite hero, regardless of the crippling modesty he showed when presented with such a fact. 

To think that he, Ouma Kokichi, could be the destruction of all of that… 

That couldn’t happen. He also couldn’t have Saihara taking the blame for everything again. _Especially_ when the blame should be placed on himself. All the confidence Saihara built could go down the drain. That jabbing doubt that kept Saihara from seeing self-worth will come back and it’ll be all his fault. 

He recalled the cautious glances from the weeks of recovery, after they all woke up. To Ouma, it felt like going from one hell to the next. He found himself wishing that the unforgiving pressure he burst underneath was as real as it felt. At the time, that seemed like the most appealing option, compared to facing and communicating with his classmates again. Saihara was one of the only people who insisted on actively checking up on him, because he was too polite for his own good, and proceeded to believe in human decency even after witnessing his friends crumble under cheap motives and tear each other apart for their own gain. Ouma knew how monstrous it was. He is, after all, the worst of them. 

Yet the amount of attempts Ouma made to push him away didn’t deter the daily visits and invites to breakfast one bit. The uneasy looks and “be careful”s Saihara got from Momota and Harukawa whenever he planned to accompany him didn’t go unnoticed. They knew it, too: Ouma’s capability of destroying everything around him.

And so wishes for the hydraulic press being his genuine grave come to Ouma even now. It’s better that way. Safer for everyone else, Saihara being at the forefront of his mind. He could ruin him. He will ruin him. He will, he will—

“We’re not there anymore. They’re okay-” Saiahara’s voice caught him before his thoughts could spiral further. 

“That barely means shit,” Ouma muttered, hating the way a whine slipped into his tone and betrayed his attempt at sounding like he was better. 

Saihara considered his next words carefully. Guilt is a heavy burden to bear, he knew. “Is that the lie you’ve been telling yourself this whole time?”

No answer. He took the liberty of continuing. “It means everything, and you know it. We’re okay, and— you have time now, Kokichi. Nobody is holding it against you here; they’re more than willing to see you, help you... understand you, even. There’s time for you to heal, it’s just a matter of recognizing the hands that are extended to you.” 

Ouma huffed against the shoulder he had his face buried in, an attempt at regaining control of his breathing so he could at least sound like he wasn’t choking on snot and tears alike. 

“You spend too much time with those motivational-coach friends of yours,” he remarked. Maybe that way his sad huff would sound like a laugh. Though it was pointless, because Saihara will see straight through it.

Just as expected: he did, because the bait wasn’t taken and the discomfort of having someone else spell out his own emotions for him didn’t stop. “The only person who hasn’t realized you’re capable of being forgiven is yourself.” 

“Then maybe all of you are the ones lying to yourselves.” The smaller finally dared to pick his head, his argumentativeness snaking in even at the worst of times. Part of him figured his dignity was already shot for the night, so what did it matter when his bloodshot eyes and wet, blotchy face confronted Saihara’s? 

“They know what it’s like to die because of me. Who.. who’s to say I’m not the one keeping them up at night?” He paused once his voice started to waver again. His words were broken up by forceful inhales through a runny nose. “They’re fucked up because of me... I’m fucked up because of me! Everyone would be better off if I was still—”

“Don’t.” Saihara caught where Ouma’s words were headed and jumped to cut him off. “‘Kichi, please don’t finish that sentence, please.”

His pleas seemed to make time freeze. Apart from a hitched breath, which could have been either one of them at that point, a heavy stillness took over. He wasn’t sure if it was the desperation in his voice, or the way his grasp on Ouma tightened that got his point across more. He let the quiet hang for a moment further before speaking again. 

“When I say nobody deserved the suffering they faced there, that includes you. You’re worthy of being alive, of being here. God, it-” he found himself releasing one of his boyfriend’s hands in favor of pulling him closer by the waist. His hand bunched into Ouma’s clothes greedily, like someone threatened to take him. “It was all so awful. Please don’t think of yourself like that.”

Silence returned. Ouma, at the very least, respected Saihara’s wishes. Because he’d do anything for Saihara, and never wanted to be the cause for his misery again. 

“You have a concerning habit of believing in people that don’t deserve it,” he muttered eventually. Because he could not, for the life of him, entirely communicate his emotions even in the midst of a breakdown. 

His stubbornness managed to draw a weak laugh from Saihara, though it could easily be mistaken as a choked back sob. He carried on despite Ouma’s expected resistance. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself like that— You shouldn’t have had to in the first place. You deserve to exist, and you... you deserve to get better with the rest of us. Please, promise me you’ll try and see that.”

If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he broke Ouma. The loudest response he got for a while were stuffy sniffs and quavery exhales. As Ouma processed the words, Saihara lifted one of the hands he still had a hold on all this time. His grip had become looser, and lazier since he last gave the contact attention. 

Ouma was never one to believe words so much, so Saihara figured he might as well emphasize his point by renewing the touch. With tentative movement, Saihara lifted Ouma’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to drying skin. Each knuckle wore a red tint and a considerably chapped appearance, undoubtedly traumatized from the obsessive treatment they received just moments ago. He reveled in the intimate taste of copper and soap that lingered with each kiss. Grateful praises were passed on through more kisses every time he felt Ouma’s hand relax into the gesture. Each time his lips closed the gap again was another promise of devotion, vowing to never let the other slip from his grasp. He treasured the opportunity for as long as the moment could allow before joining his gaze with Ouma’s once more.

Disbelief and shock laced Ouma’s expression as he stared. Tingles ran through his hand, rushing to his head, and pigmenting his face an embarrassing shade of pink. Their surroundings blurred as he witnessed the sight before him: The kind, good, favored Saihara Shuichi practically worshipping his hand as if it wasn’t stained with unforgivable atrocities. It was an intoxicating sight; any thought that tried dragging him back to earthly defense mechanisms disintegrated into fuzz. When Saihara pulled away, he finally managed to blink a portion of the daze from his face. 

Said tingles must’ve melted his tongue too, because Ouma was unable to respond all over again. 

In different circumstances, he would have made a snide remark about being royalty. All he could manage was to submit to the dumbfounded dizziness that flustered his every feature, and hide his face again. Maybe if he pressed into Saihara’s shoulder enough, lingering tears that threatened to spill will be pushed back to where they came from. Perhaps it could prevent his awed gaping from slipping into senseless blubbering. 

Judging from the light vibration he felt come from the ex-detective’s chest, he assumed his speechlessness was rewarded with a soft laugh. Ouma was too stuck in his starstruck haze to pout over it. 

Having to keep still always seemed like a bore, but now it came across as one of the best things he could do. If only fighting the reaction didn’t drain him out so much. If only the mere idea of opening his eyes and letting in the bathroom’s harsh light didn’t cause such a headache. If only everything about the person he was enveloped in wasn’t so damn good at providing relief, temporary or not. 

Ah, Saihara Shuichi and his ridiculous, heartfelt speeches, accompanied by those reverent kisses that made him lose track of time. The comforting buzz never left since Saihara kissed him; it overshadowed the irritable tightness of chapped skin. His body felt like airy static, numbing the guilt that tore at it. He basked in the peaceful atmosphere that he was convinced Saihara alone could give him.

Did he doze off? It’s possible. All he knew was the light nudge at his side, and some mumbled bit about their room. Ouma offered a slurred protest about not getting up, and that must have been that, because the last thing he felt was a chin making a pillow out of the top of his head.

**Author's Note:**

> i see quite a few parallels between lady macbeth and kokichi, despite the huge gap between their origins. both are unjustly brushed off as crazy when the proof that they aren’t is plain to see. they both had valid goals that they never lost sight of, and they both understood the weight of the actions they committed in order to reach that goal. by the end of their arcs, guilt was very much present, which is not something “crazy” people could relate to.   
> i wanted to explore kokichi’s guilt more, so i hope this does the job.   
> bonus fact: “i never told you what i do for a living” by mcr was also my muse. the song’s theme fits him incredibly well.. it also references the scottish play itself, so everything comes full circle.


End file.
